


Love in the Air (Literally)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Not literally, Past Abuse, Past DubCon, Past Viclock, Plane, Poor Sherlock, Pre-Slash, Sherlock doesn't know how to talk, Soft John Watson, but John will take care of him now, conversations 20000 feet up, he's just awkward af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-12 02:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After John falls asleep on Sherlock, Sherlock decides a cramped plane is the right place to talk about feelings. John is awkward but everyone's happy.





	Love in the Air (Literally)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock or John (obviously)  
> Just a random drabble, editing did not occur!!

Sherlock fiddled with his phone, checking the remaining flight time slightly more often than was necessary. 

Okay, every fifteen seconds. Approximately.

The flight from London to central Portugal should take around two and a half hours, and they had been in the air for slightly over 21. Sherlock wasn’t opposed to flying; as long as there was legroom and coffee and, god-forbid, no screaming babies, it could be quite an enjoyable experience.

However, right now, John was fast asleep. On his shoulder. Drooling. He had been this way for exactly eleven minutes, 26 seconds, and it was proving… most distracting. The detective hadn’t been accustomed to physical touch for years; in fact, he avoided it. A back portion of his brain was reminding him that he should be disgusted, that John was slobbering on The Coat, and that he should just shove him away. Yet his body stayed still. Almost rigid.

Sherlock hadn’t let himself  _ do _ feelings since university. Since Mycroft had found him in his room, hands shaking, a lethal dose of cocaine puller up in his antique syringe. With a tenderness that Sherlock didn’t care to remember, his brother had pocketed the syringe, released the tourniquet from his arm, and guided him to his bed. He laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder, squeezing for just a second as Sherlock’s body began to shake. Mycroft stood and made to leave, turning at the door.

_ "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. People like Victor will never understand.” _

He had loved Victor, but  _ love _ didn’t feel like an encompassing enough word. Sherlock had worshipped Victor. His music was Sherlock’s hymns, his strong arms around Sherlock’s back his anchor. And then he left.

Because Sherlock was a tease _.  _ A  _ freak, _ sociopath, missing a key piece- he didn’t want, was repulsed by the mere idea of  _ sex.  _ Victor had begged, and Sherlock had run out of excuses, so he found himself pinned to the mattress, tears streaming down his face, gagging before he even reached the toilet as soon as Victor finished.

As John shifted on his shoulder, snoring softly, the memories threatened to overwhelm Sherlock. The aesthetic, even romantic attraction that had been brewing for so long twisted in his gut, sending bile up the back of his throat. Terror of being abandoned, of not being enough, of losing John, clouded his brain 'til all he could think was  _ John, John, John, please. _

He didn’t realise he had spoken out loud until two blue eyes peered blearily up at his. John shook himself awake. “Sherlock? Hey, I’m here! I’m here,” concern evident in his voice. It was all it took.

Sherlock crumbled, face in his hands, silent sobs wracking his body. John, utterly confused, yet somehow not, settled for stroking his back soothingly.

“John… I,” Sherlock choked out, voice barely above a whisper, “I’m  _ sorry.  _ I can’t do this anymore, and I’ll never be able to do it, and you won’t stay without it and I, I, I…”

“Hush,” John muttered. “Sherlock, you’re not making any sense. Of course I’m staying, mate, where else would I go?”

Sherlock sighed, sitting up but balling his hands tight in his lap. Pink blush spread high along his cheekbones. “John, I guess I… like you? As, um, that? But you like, well, sex,” he murmured, keeping his head down, eyes flicking up quickly to gauge John’s reaction.

John huffed a fond laugh. “I know,” he raised his hand as Sherlock looked up at him, clearly disgruntled. “No, wait, hear me out. I know, and it’s fine. It’s all fine, although this sort of conversation isn’t usually had on a crowded plane.” John relaxed slightly at the hint of a smile playing on Sherlock’s lips.

He guided Sherlock’s head to rest on his shoulder, a mirror image of their original position. Sherlock tensed, then relaxed, his body sagging against John’s. John ran a gentle hand through his mussed curls.

“Sherlock- I mean it. It’s fine. Good, even. Just- let’s wait till we’re on the ground, okay?”

The detective nodded, exhausted but strangely warm. John, his  _ wonderful  _ John wasn’t  going to leave.


End file.
